Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Yesterday I came home to find a mysterious package on the table. It was from my parents. They hadn't mentioned sending me anything.

I opened it right away. Before I took off my coat. Inside I found this:

A bonafide Crane Melon. Straight from Crane Melon Barn, in Santa Rosa, California. Richard Crane, the father of Oliver Crane, the man who developed the Crane melon, was Grandma's Great-Great-Uncle; her maiden name was Crane. Not a bad birthright, Crane melons.

After dinner, I took a knife and split it in two. The seeds slipped out with a slurpy sound. Or at least I thought I heard a slurp. I might have imagined it.

I wish I could take a picture of the scent of this melon. Or find a perfume like it.

We ate it for dessert. When I put the first bite in my mouth, it dissolved. In another day or two, it would be past ripe. But right then, it was perfect. What's better than the most perfect bite of melon?

We finished it for breakfast. When I uncovered it, I thought there was plastic sticking to it still, it was so shiny. But it was just the melon, shimmering.

This is just to say
Thanks, Mom and Dad
It was delicious
So perfect and unexpected

Thanks, Kairu--I agree about the fragrance of melons (though peaches are close for me). And thanks about the poem, which, of course, was shamelessly skimmed from William Carlos Williams 'This Is Just To Say'.

"This is Just to Say" is one of my favorite poems, even though I prefer my fruit at room temperature (with the exception of watermelon, which must be icy-cold). Especially plums and peaches, warmed by the sun, juices dripping down my face.